


Times Like These

by Sparkle_Free



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-22
Updated: 2010-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-11 05:03:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparkle_Free/pseuds/Sparkle_Free
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Watson's wedding, Holmes finds support in an unlikely place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The morning of Watson's wedding, Holmes woke early and - to the shock of Mrs. Hudson - groomed and dressed with special care. Contrary to what Watson believed, he _didn't_ want to ruin his wedding, and he _didn't_ necessarily disapprove of Mary. That was, perhaps, the hardest part of all: she wasn't a useless trophy wife, she wasn't looking to improve her station - though Holmes often implied it to rile them - she was nothing but genuine in her affection. She was an intelligent woman, and even he was taken in on occasion by the way her eyes gleamed when they discussed a particularly thorny problem in her presence. No, the cruelest part of all was probably the painful realization that she _was_ a worthy opponent. He had tried, and he had failed; though, in his opinion, the judge _was_ unfairly biased. Still, what else was there, now, but to concede graciously?

Mrs. Hudson helped him into his jacket as he reached the bottom of the stairs. She was dressed in a fine green dress, her carriage already waiting as she eyed him critically. Finally, she nodded at him, beaming.

"You'll make a fine best man, Mr. Holmes, handsome as can be; now you just stick to those cards -" she nodded to his breast pocket, where his dreaded speech lay in wait, "- and it will all be over before you know it." He grimaced, but managed a curt nod. She turned and hurried out the door without another glance. With a sigh, he followed her.

He hesitated just outside the door, listening to her carriage pull away. He didn't have to do this. Didn't have to watch Watson promise to be to Mary what he'd always been to _him._ He could turn back now, say he had a case -

"Mr. Holmes?" He jumped and spun around to see Clarky striding toward him, dressed in a fine blue suit so dark in hue it was nearly black. It fit his frame perfectly, and Holmes wondered idly how a police constable of all things managed to afford such rich attire.

Watson had invited the entire police force, nearly, though Holmes had wondered at the time what the point was. It wasn't as though Watson even considered them _friends_; Holmes rather suspected he simply wanted to have his marriage witnessed by as many people as possible. As though a large attendance might mitigate the enormity of this mistake, Holmes thought bitterly.

"Sir?" He pulled himself from his thoughts to see Clarky watching him with a worried frown.

"I'm fine. On my way to my dear Watson's wedding," he said, clearing his throat to cover the soft waver in his voice.

"I see," Clarky said softly. "I'm headed that way, myself. Would you care to join me in a cab?"

Holmes hesitated only a moment. "Yes, thank you," he said. "I'd rather not arrive alone," he added quietly. Clarky merely nodded and took his arm gently, raising his hand to hail the next cab.

The ceremony went beautifully, with Watson and Mary staring into each other's eyes like the rest of the room didn't exist; Holmes had turned away the moment the procession reached the front of the church only to see Clarky smiling at him encouragingly. He smiled back just as the photographer took the photo of the wedding party. Blinking rapidly, he turned back to the alter and attempted to perform his duties as best man. At the reception, he delivered a toast calculated to maximize emotional impact, timing his inflection perfectly, recalling fond memories of his dearest friend. He was slightly worried when he turned around to face them only to see tears gleaming in Mary's eyes. However, Watson stood and crossed to stand in front of him, shaking his hand firmly, eyes shining, and he was certain he would have embraced him, had it been proper. Holmes pulled his hand away quickly.

Later on, Watson drifted through the crowd, shaking hands and grinning at everyone like a fool. People Holmes had never even _seen_ before congratulated him on his marriage, congratulated him on his thriving young practice.

Congratulated him on getting away from that strange Sherlock Holmes.

He didn't hear those last ones, of course; they were murmured too low for him to hear. Instead he saw them, in the nervous way their eyes would drift away from him, the way Watson's smile would falter and his lips would form awkward protests, glancing at Holmes as though he wished to apologize.

Of course, it surely didn't help their opinion of him that he'd spend the last half hour leaning against the wall nursing his drink, watching his friend as he made his way around the room. Several beautiful young women had approached him nervously, hinting they wished to dance. A natural consequence to having brushed his hair and donned Watson's second best best suit, no doubt. There was even a devastatingly handsome young man watching him, eyes asking a question that had he not been at his respectable best friend's wedding, he certainly would have enthusiastically agreed to.

As it was, the only offer to dance he extended was to Mary, and the way Watson beamed when they were pointed out to him more than compensated for any awkwardness they experienced as they moved across the floor. She smiled at him, cheeks flushed, and as the song ended she pulled him close for just a moment, putting her lips near his ear.

"Thank you. For everything."

He jerked back as though burned, mumbling something as he made his way back to the wall. He pressed against it like a lifeline, trying to rein in the sadness threatening to overcome him. Someone leaned against the wall next to him, pressing a fresh drink into his trembling hands. He downed it quickly and handed the empty glass back. He intended to thank the person when suddenly, Watson was standing in front of him, gripping his hand tightly, and forgot everything as the happiness written plain on his friend's face took his breath away.

"Thank you for coming, Holmes," Watson said earnestly. He brought up his other hand as well, gripping Holmes' hand in both of his. Dimly, Holmes was aware of the person next to him moving away from them.

"Of course," he said softly, squeezing his hand in return. He managed a small smile. "Of course."

The evening wore on, men and women mingling on the dance floor, the wine flowing just a bit freer than was proper. He wasn't sure when he finally slipped away, his duties as best man finally completed. Once outside, he didn't bother with the false cheer; head bowed, he walked to the street. A cab stopped in front of him, and he climbed in gratefully.

And if there was a gentle hand gripping his elbow, guiding him - well, he paid it no mind.

The cab slowed to a stop in front of Baker Street, despite the fact that he'd never addressed the cabbie. He sat there for a moment, staring up at 221B. His home. Alone. After a time the horses began to paw the ground and the cabbie grumbled at him.

"Are you getting out?" the cabbie finally asked.

"No," he said, leaning back in his seat and closing the door behind him. "There's somewhere else I'd like to go."

Hours later, the room pitched and swayed around him as the large man across from him nearly danced around him, grinning. He was beginning to question the merit of his earlier decision to have a drink or three before the match; he stumbled forward, and he barely caught a glimpse of the man's grinning face before stars exploded behind his eyes. He blinked rapidly, the faces of the crowd swirling around him, jeers and laughter echoing as he tried to catch his breath. He fell forward as the man side-stepped, crashing into the wooden divider and forcing the crowd backward. Dazed, he tried to turn around, but pain exploded in his side and he was being forced backward, up and over the wooden wall. The crowd erupted in cheers, and he lay on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. They surged forward once more, and for one jarring moment he was certain he was about to be trampled; then, strong arms wrapped around his chest, lifting him to his feet.

He was pulled back against a firm chest, a familiar scent enveloping him, and in his drunken state he suddenly wondered if perhaps a different form of physical exertion might finally clear his mind. He turned around in the man's arms, allowing himself to be led away from the ring.

He was pulled into the crowd, bodies pressed against them from all sides as he was dragged along. He gripped the arm of the man holding him, dark blue material crinkling under his fingers as blood and sweat soaked into it. Licking his lips, he wound his other hand around the man's back, straying below the waist and squeezing experimentally. The man let out an undignified squeak as they stumbled forward, the sheer mass of people around them keeping them on their feet. The next match started, and the throng of people surged forward, oblivious to all but the two men in the ring. Holmes chuckled breathlessly, leaning close enough to press his face to the man's neck as he was half-dragged up the stairs to the secluded room.

The man pulled him until they were chest to chest and wrapped an arm around his waist to steady him. He recognized the faint clinking of keys as he struggled to unlock the door of the small room Holmes kept there. Holmes thrust his hips forward, grinning as he felt an answering hardness press against his own erection. There was a surprised curse and a loud clang as the keys fell to the floor, but the door swung open and suddenly he was being forced inside.

The door slammed closed behind them, and he was instantly pressed between the cool wood and the hot, hard form in front of him. He squinted up at the man who was still holding him, trying to make out his features. "Watson?" he slurred. "Your moustache looks funny."

There was a soft sigh, and then the pressure was gone, the room spinning as he was suddenly whipped around and lowered into a chair. "I get that a lot, sir," came a deeper voice.

He tried to stand, but the floor pitched up at him, and strong hands gripped his shoulders. The voice said something in response, but suddenly he couldn't make out the words. He might have been alone for a while, after that; then his arms were carefully maneuvered through his shirt sleeves and he was guided out the door and into a cab. The moment he caught sight of his own bed he collapsed on it, trying to pull the man down with him. He resisted, sitting on the edge instead.

"Please," he begged, unconsciously spreading his legs wider, rolling his hips in the air, "I need..."

"You need to rest," the voice said gently. "You're not yourself."

"You can't know who I am," Holmes muttered. "_I_ don't. Not anymore."

He didn't reply. Instead, his fingers slowly carded through Holmes' hair as the other held his hand loosely, thumb stroking over the back. He felt the bed shift just before there was a soft brush of lips on his forehead, and with a sigh, he relaxed against the mattress, eyes drifting closed.

\-----

He awoke slowly, groaning aloud, rolling onto his side as he waited for the contents of his stomach to either settle or be forcibly ejected. Either it was still dark or the shades had been drawn; either way, he was grateful for the lack of sunlight beating against his eyelids in his state. He blinked and looked around warily.

There was a chair drawn up to his bedside, the man in it leaning against the wall, his head resting on his own shoulder awkwardly. He'd taken off his jacket at some point, his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal pale forearms, his tie loosened slightly, exposing the hollow of his throat. Holmes glanced away quickly onto to cringe when he noticed he'd been gripping his hand in his sleep. He pulled away hurriedly.

"Constable Clark?" he asked. He jerked awake, looking around sleepily. When his eyes landed on Holmes, however, he flushed a deep red.

"Mr. Holmes!" he jumped to his feet. "Are you alright, sir? You're alright, so I'll just be going -" he babbled as he grabbed his hat and made his way to the door.

"Wait," he said, and Clarky froze, back rigid, hand gripping the doorknob. "My apologies; did you bring me home last night?"

The constable turned around slowly. "Mr. Holmes?" he asked warily.

"From the Punchbowl. I remember fighting a rather large man; after that, my time in the ring is hazy at best. Did I require assistance?"

"You don't remember anything?"

Nervousness thrilled through him at the phrasing. "Unfortunately, no. If I behaved in any way... inappropriately," he began carefully, "I do apologize."

"No! Not at all, sir," Clarky said quickly. "Nothing unexpected, given the events of the day. If you'll excuse me, I must be going." He was out the door in a flash, leaving Holmes still laying in bed and wondering what the world he had meant.

He stared at the ceiling for several minutes, debating the merits of staying in bed. For the rest of his life, preferably. His stomach finally settled, and he sat up, groaning aloud. He took in the state of his clothing: covered in blood in some places, pants ripped, shoes missing. That last one was rather strange; he glanced around curiously. Ah, at the foot of the bed. Brushed off as well, he noted with a slight smile. With a shrug, he pulled himself from the bed and peeled off his clothing, wincing whenever the dried blood clung to him stubbornly.

He washed carefully, the water quickly turning a rust color as he scrubbed the blood from his chest. He emptied the basin and finally moved to fill the tub, sinking into the warm water with a soft sigh. He ran his fingers down his abdomen, dipping down between his legs idly, teasing himself with no great urgency. He already felt strangely sated, boneless in the water, his head resting against the edge.

He reached with his other hand to cup his sac, rolling his testicles in his palm before dipping lower to brush over his opening. He gasped at the sensation. It had been so long since he'd dared - unbidden, he thought of the device he had hidden in his room years ago. For treating hysteria in women, Watson had explained when they first moved in together and he caught sight of it in Watson's bag. He'd slipped it from the doctor's room at the first opportunity, marveling at the existence of such a thing in - what he felt - was a far too sexually repressed age. He stepped from the tub, not bothering to dry off before he padded silently to his bedroom and drew it from where he'd hidden it. He bit his lip.

He'd put it away shortly after his first few experiments with it, determined to avoid indulging in this particular vice while living with Watson. At first, it was a necessary precaution - Watson had of course noticed it's disappearance, and he had no idea, for example, if Watson would be prone to bursting into his rooms - and later out of fear that his attachment to Watson would manifest during such sessions. It hardly seemed to matter now. He moved to lay on the bed, heart already hammering in anticipation.

He carefully spread the lubricant over his hand before fisting the tool and stroking it roughly, closing his eyes and trying to imagine the way a lover would react to such touches. He moved his still-slick fingers to his opening, pressing two fingers inside in his excitement and swearing at the long-forgotten feeling. He raised his knees, pressing the balls of his feet against the mattress as he rolled his hips, tensing around his fingers and whimpering aloud at the sensation. Hand shaking, he withdrew his fingers and pressed the tip against his opening.

He gasped as he slid it inside, spreading himself open almost painfully. He bucked his hips, gripping his shaft, imagining a deep voice groaning in his ear as his hand worked furiously. A spasm of pleasure went through him as he ran his thumb over the tip, spreading the moisture there over the head. He rolled onto his side and buried his face in the slightly rough fabric below him, muffling his cries as he angled the device to stroke his prostate again and again.

Pleasure was building at the base of his spine and his strokes turned harsh as he drew a deep, gasping breath. A strangely familiar scent assaulted his senses and with a choked curse, his muscles clenched around the device as he came over the bed in great spurts.

He lay there panting for a moment, trying to catch his breath. Finally, he propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at where he had been laying. There, on the edge of the bed, was a now hopelessly rumpled dark blue suit jacket, caked with old blood in some places and now fresh stains in others. With a groan, he flopped back on the bed.

Getting out of bed had been a bad idea after all, he decided.


	2. Chapter 2

Holmes had extrapolated several endings to the case of Lady Ava's diamond necklace. That the man would be armed, or that the police would bungle their part, certainly. He hadn't expected, however, to literally run into his best friend and partner - _former_ partner - while chasing the man.

"So, when did you return from your honeymoon?" Holmes asked casually as Watson righted himself and immediately fell into step beside him.

"Yesterday morning," Watson huffed. "I was going to come see you, but -" he broke off as the suspect scrambled over a low wall. Holmes vaulted over it, not bothering to slow down. "Why are we chasing him?" Watson called as he went over the wall at a slower pace.

"Diamond theft!" Holmes shouted back over his shoulder. "Slight miscalculation in apprehending the man. Momentary setback."

"_This_ is momentary?" Watson huffed. Holmes just laughed, following the man down a narrow alley where he knew an ambush lay in wait. Sure enough, a knot of policemen turned the corner in front of their suspect and he barreled into them, knocking several to the ground. Holmes shouted angrily, but one managed to get his hands on the suspect and jerk him back, pulling his arms behind his back and handcuffing him before he could break away once more. Holmes jogged over.

"Good man," he clapped Clarky on the shoulder. He turned their suspect to face him, rummaging through his pockets. "Jonathan Graham," he said as he pulled a necklace from his pocket, adorned with a large diamond. "I believe this belongs to the Lady Ava." He passed the necklace to Lestrade, who nodded at the officers to load Graham into a waiting carriage. He turned and flashed Watson a lightning-quick smile. "How was the south of France, then, my good man?"

Watson leaned forward, hands resting on his knees as he gasped for air. "I need to get home, Holmes," he panted.

Holmes grinned at him, stretching his sore muscles. "Of course, Watson. Some time spent reclining in front of the fire might be -"

"I meant," Watson interrupted awkwardly, "I have to go to my _own_ home." He watched Holmes closely for a moment. Holmes, for his part, tried not to think of the remaining crowd of police who were likely _also_ watching him.

Holmes bit his lip. "Right," he said briskly. "My mistake, old boy. Good evening." He turned and walked away quickly. He heard someone call his name, but ducked his head and hurried down the nearest side street and through the backdoor of a pub. Once he stepped out the front, he slowed his pace, shoving his hands in his pockets and rambling through the crowded streets. People pushed past him as they hurried home, but as he wandered farther into a seedier area, the streets became increasingly clear. Finally he was walking alone, the cool wind whipping his hair into his face as the sun began to set, small droplets of rain starting to land next to his feet.

"Lookin' for something, mister?" a voice suddenly called. He jerked from his thoughts, looking over. A rent boy. He was smiling at Holmes; such a warm, friendly expression that he had taken a step toward him before he knew it.

It had been so long. Sharing lodgings with a man who wasn't a sodomite had unforeseen setbacks; namely, fear of incriminating his dearest friend in a crime he'd never dare to commit. Now, however, Watson was safe; he had a family, a respectable practice.

And Holmes was so very lonely.

He crossed the street, not even sparing a glance up and down the road. The boy's smile widened, rain plastering his hair to his forehead in a manner that was quite fetching. Holmes tried hard not to think about how _young_ he looked. "How much?" he asked briskly.

Suddenly, the boy looked over Holmes' shoulder for a split second before he spun on his heel and darted down the alley. Holmes glanced over his shoulder, annoyed, to see Constable Clark striding toward him. He stopped next to him, and for a moment they were silent, watching the boy run away.

"Looking for a lead, sir?" Clarky asked.

There was a long pause. "Yes," Holmes said softly. Clarky finally turned to look at him.

"If it's not too much trouble, would you care to spare a few minutes and join me for a meal? I was just headed there," he nodded to a run-down restaurant across the street. "That Graham business left me famished, I don't mind telling you. I could use the company, if you'd grant me the favor, sir."

Holmes shrugged, reluctantly following Clarky across the street. The man behind the bar nodded to them, his expression a mixture of anger and suspicion. He inched away as Clarky ordered their drinks, but filled them quickly and without complaint.

"Strange man," Clarky muttered as they sat at a small poorly-lit table in the corner. Holmes glanced back over his shoulder.

"A drunk, I'd say, divorced not long ago. Attended a wedding quite recently," he glanced over his shoulder again and squinted. "His child's."

"Hmm. What about him?" Clarky asked as he pointed to a man at the bar, slightly eager. Holmes glanced back in annoyance. Generally, he enjoyed showing off his deductive prowess, but tonight he was decidedly not interested.

"Teacher," he said shortly. "University. Took a four-wheeler here. He sat on the left side, and the horse had one unshod hoof." He took in the ring adorning the man's finger. "Married. Happily." He took a swig of his drink while he waited. For the _that's amazing, Holmes,_ the _how did you do it, Holmes?_

"Really?" Clarky said mildly. "I wonder why he's sodding a stable boy, then, of all people."

Holmes coughed and sputtered, his glass hitting the table with a loud _thunk_. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and turned and stared at the man, but couldn't make out anything that would indicate _that_. He looked suspiciously back at Clarky, but he was looking away, lips twitched up in the barest hint of a smile. "What about him, then?" Holmes pointed to another man.

"Ah, that one likes to wear ladies' bloomers," he said, lips still twitching. "You can see the outline through his trousers. Ghastly pair he's wearing now, poor bugger." Holmes gaped at him for a moment, then covered his mouth as a wave of disbelieving laughter tumbled out. Clarky finally turned to look at him, breaking into a wide smile as Holmes' chuckles began to die down. The door swung open and a large, imposing man stepped inside, dressed in an almost comically self-important manner. His eyes swept over the bar. Holmes looked at Clarky, eyebrows raised.

"_Horses,_" he said solemnly. Holmes ducked his head, trying desperately to hide his mirth as he gestured to another man and Clarky began to rattle off his 'deductions' once more. Holmes started when their meals were placed in front of them; he hadn't realized how much time had passed.

He looked up to see Clarky smiling at him fondly. He looked away quickly, cheeks tinged pink, and Holmes felt a rush of affection for the man. He looked down at his own plate, barely tasting his meal, risking glances at Clarky whenever he could.

He couldn't help but notice their rickety table in this run-down tavern felt quite comfortable, all of a sudden.

\-----

It was weeks later when he was awakened by Mrs. Hudson, informing him briskly that Inspector Lestrade was in the sitting room with an urgent request for his assistance. One look at her face told him what Mrs. Hudson thought Lestrade could do with his 'urgent request.' As he pulled himself reluctantly out of bed, Holmes found he quite agreed with her.

Still, he dressed (slowly,) and made his way to the sitting room, and a half hour later, he was in a hansom barreling across town, Lestrade shouting the details of the case over the wind and the sound of the horse's hooves. Body of a young girl, found in a courtyard of a school. The parents were frantic; the school was trying to keep things as quiet as possible. As they pulled up to the scene, Holmes noted several small clusters of officers spread about the lawn; near the center, a sheet fluttered in the wind, occasionally revealing golden blond hair or a pale arm. Holmes stepped out and crossed the lawn quickly.

Watson was approaching, bag in hand, from the other side of the yard. He waited for the familiar rush of longing to hit him, but was surprised when it didn't come. Instead, he felt a slight affection for his friend. That was it. He couldn't help but smile.

Watson approached him and immediately rolled his eyes at his expression. "What the devil are you grinning about Holmes? Over the body of a twelve year old girl, no less. Have some respect," he chided good-naturedly. He knelt down and whipped the sheet back, ignoring the way several of the policemen standing around recoiled. Dead children were a part of the job no one ever quite got used to, Clarky would say. "Bullet wound," Watson said tonelessly. Several officers shuffled away as quickly as possible. "Pierced the frontal lobe. Exit wound," he lifted the head to examine it, "Extensive damage to the brain stem and spinal cord. Time of death: twelve to fourteen hours ago. Mary wants you to come for tea tomorrow," he said to Holmes as he jotted down his notes. "Shall I just tell her you're indisposed?"

"No," Holmes said instantly, and for a moment they just stared at each other with twin expressions of surprise.

"Holmes?" Watson said warily as he stood, not bothering to brush off his knees.

"I would love to have tea with you and your wife," Holmes said, eyes still slightly wide. It was so _easy_ to say.

Watson turned his head to the side slightly, as though he wanted to look over his shoulder to see who Holmes was _really_ talking to, but was afraid to let him out of his line of sight. "Are you... are you sure?" he said finally.

"Yes," Holmes said, suddenly fighting the urge to smile. "Is that so strange?"

"Well... yes," Watson said honestly. Holmes merely chuckled in response.

"I'll be there at tea-time tomorrow, Watson, you can inform your wife," he tipped his hat with a grin, and Watson finally smiled back at him and nodded. He turned to walk away, nearly bumping into Clarky, who was standing rather closely behind him. Clarky gave him a strange look, eyes darting between him and Watson, before he stepped out of the way with a muttered apology. Holmes brushed it off and walked on, finding himself rather eager to spend time with Watson again, now that his strange inappropriate reactions were diminishing.

He stalked the parameter of the courtyard, looking for any suspicious marks. Still, he found his gaze drawn to Clarky repeatedly, watching as he moved from group to group, comforting fellow officers and relaying information. He smiled, kneeling down just as an officer approached him.

"Find anything yet, Mr. Holmes?" he said, a little bit snide.

"Not yet," he admitted. The man smirked. Holmes stood and glared at him, as though daring him to comment. Clarky moved again, and he found his attention diverted once more. "I'm certain Constable Clark will be able to give you more information later. He's always working, it seems; his wife must have the patience of a saint."

"Constable Clark?" the officer said, obviously confused. "He's not married, Mr. Holmes."

"He isn't?" Holmes asked, surprised. He looked up at the man, who shook his head. "How strange," he muttered. "He mentioned a wife in passing to me, once."

The officer shrugged. "Odd sense of humor, that one."

Lestrade approached them suddenly. "What are you two gossiping about, over here?" he grumbled. He crossed his arms, and Holmes suppressed a smile when he realized Lestrade was avoiding joining the Yarders gathered around the body.

"Constable Clark," the man said. Lestrade's face soured immediately. "He told Mr. Holmes here he was married, for some reason." Lestrade's eyes widened for a moment, then he ducked his head and coughed. "I don't think I've so much as seen Clarky with a woman," the man continued, oblivious. Holmes glanced between them, watching barely concealed panic overtake Lestrade's features.

Suddenly, the implication hit him full force, and he nearly staggered under the weight of the realization. Lestrade was looking at him fearfully even as he snarled at the man to go do his job. The officer turned on his heel and hurried away, muttering under his breath. "Mr. Holmes," Lestrade whispered urgently. "Please..."

But he couldn't listen, not now. Instead he merely waved Lestrade off, turning on his heel and walking away, deep in thought. Clarky was... well, like him. They shared the same secret; surely, that was the reason he felt so relaxed around the man. He was used to forming friendships out of necessity, but he'd never actively sought out other men like himself for more than dalliances in his youth. Had he done so on this occasion, unconsciously? Then another, more nerve-wracking thought hit him: _were_ they friends?

He had only been back at Baker Street long enough to stoke the fire before the sitting room door banged open behind him and Lestrade stood in the doorway, worrying his hat in his hands. He walked in without saying a word, moving to stand before the fire and look at Holmes intently for a moment. He lit a cigarette, smoking nervously without speaking until Holmes couldn't take it anymore.

"Lestrade -" he began.

"Sometimes in this business you learn things about people you'd rather not know," Lestrade interrupted urgently. He flicked his cigarette into the fire. "But Constable Clark is a good man, and a fine officer besides. Please, Mr. Holmes," he said softer than he'd ever heard before, "Leave it alone." He cleared his throat and looked down. "I'm begging you."

Holmes considered his response carefully. "I have no intention of using this knowledge against the constable, Lestrade," he said finally. "You have my word."

Lestrade let out a shaky breath, and smiled at him weakly. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Clarky is one of the best constables we have and, well," he looked down again, "It's a foolish business, if you ask me. Whatever a man's misfortune, there's no sense in punishing those who do no harm, if you don't mind me saying."

Holmes smiled at him. "You're quite right; I agree completely. The constable's secret is safe in my hands." Lestrade nodded, clearly relieved, and excused himself, leaving Holmes alone with his thoughts.

\-----

Holmes fidgeted outside the door, adjusting his tie nervously. The door finally swung open and a maid showed him in, leading him to the sitting room where Watson was reading. The moment he entered the room, Watson looked up and his face split into a wide grin.

"Holmes," he said, setting his book aside and swinging his feet off the settee. "You made it."

"Of course. Did you think I would miss it?"

Watson laughed. "I thought you might have a 'case' lined up, yes," he admitted. "You usually do, when I invite you here. I'll just get Mary. Please, have a seat," he gestured to the small table in the corner. Holmes sat, leaning back in his chair contentedly as he waited. Mary and Watson returned moments later, and he smiled widely at her.

"Mrs. Watson! You look lovely," he stood, holding her hand gently and leaning over to press a kiss to the back. She started, smiling nervously while shooting Watson a questioning glance.

"It's wonderful to see you, Mr. Holmes," she said finally.

"And you as well," he responded. They settled into their seats, Mary's eyes darting between the two of them nervously. "You seem to be adjusting rather well, I must say," Holmes said, looking between the two of them. "Married life suits you." The way they each glowed at the comment, he couldn't be sure who he was addressing. "It truly is an honor and joy to witness."

"Holmes..." Watson breathed, clearly moved. Mary stood quickly, muttering about seeing to the tea as she blinked rapidly, reaching up to wipe her eyes as she hurried from the room.

As they drank their tea, Watson rattled on happily about his new practice, Mary told Holmes a few humorous stories about the young boy she worked as a governess for, and they each hinted at each other awkwardly about their plans for the future. Holmes couldn't help but smile as he excused himself, leaving them looking at each other curiously and with a reserved happiness.

He walked back to Baker Street in high spirits, humming slightly to himself. He was surprised to find the thought of returning to his empty home didn't seem so devastating anymore. He could do this; he could live a separate existence from his dearest - and if he were honest with himself, _only_ \- friend.

He pushed open the door, noting as he climbed the stairs that Mrs. Hudson appeared to be out. He reached the landing and noticed the sitting room door was slightly ajar; it was hardly a surprise when he peered through the crack to see Clarky seated on the settee, looking around almost nervously. He jumped when Holmes pushed the door open the rest of the way. "Mr. Holmes," he said, eying him.

"Clarky," he said with a bright smile. "What can I do for you today, my good man?" he asked.

Clarky seemed taken aback by his cheerful attitude. "I - well, that is, I thought you might like some company, sir."

And that was when it hit him. He hadn't minded the thought of coming home because he knew it _wouldn't_ by empty. Clarky would be here, whether he needed someone to rant at in a drug-induced haze, someone to drink with - though Clarky was a comically light drinker - or someone to call on Watson to come tend to his wounds. He smiled tenderly, glancing away. Perhaps, he thought cautiously, he had another friend after all.

He was drawn from his thoughts by Clarky standing and shifting nervously. "It seems I was mistaken. I should be going," he said finally, moving toward the door.

"Clarky," he said softly.

Clarky turned to look over his shoulder. "Yes, sir?"

"Would you care to stay?"

The constable's face broke out in a wide smile, and he found himself smiling back, unable to keep himself from reaching out and gripping his arm. "Of course, Mr. Holmes. I'd love to."

This time there were no bloody wounds, no cocaine-induced breakdowns, just two men - _friends_, he told himself with a slightly giddy smile - seated in front of the fire, telling jokes and stories. As Clarky relaxed, he began to tell elaborate stories, gesturing wildly with his hands and going on about fellow members of the Yard until Holmes was gasping with laughter, gesturing for him to continue even as he leaned over, tears streaming down his cheeks, trying to catch his breath. Finally, Clarky rose with a slight smile, looking self-satisfied as he announced he really _did_ need to leave. Holmes stood as well, watching Clarky's lips move as he spoke.

He licked his lips, watching as Clarky's cheeks reddened slightly and he ran a hand through his hair. He was staring at Holmes' lips, pupils dilated. Holmes leaned closer, until he could just barely see the man's pulse beating wildly in his throat. Holmes' own heart was pounding in his chest. He hesitated. Could he risk his first friendship since Watson's marriage?

Then, the thought rose up unbidden: could he risk spending another however many years, pining, wondering?

Determined, he leaned forward, and Clarky's eyes grew impossibly wide as Holmes' lips just grazed his cheekbone. He stepped back, startled, seeming unaware of his hand raising to brush across his cheek. Holmes stepped back, smiling widely, heart feeling like it would burst. Clarky backed away, still looking dazed, stammering his goodbyes.

"Clarky?" Holmes called just as the man reached the bottom of the stairs. He turned nervously in response.

"Yes?"

"Come for dinner tomorrow night, would you?"

He smiled. "Of course, sir. Of course."


	3. Chapter 3

Holmes waited nervously, pacing the sitting room. Mrs. Hudson had already prepared a meal and at his insistence and expense was spending the evening at a lavish hotel under the guise of his gratitude for her patience.

He crossed to his chair and lifted his violin, plucking at the strings, lost in thought. His train of thought would have been laughably ridiculous if it hadn't been so completely true: He was contemplating sleeping with a member of the Yard. Even _less_ likely than a woman, he thought with a smile. What would Watson think of _that?_

That thought sobered him instantly, and he lowered his violin. What _would_ Watson think? Would he be disgusted? End their friendship? That thought was nearly unbearable. He loved Watson, of that he was certain, but that thought didn't send his pulse racing, not anymore. He wasn't sure if he could survive on scraps of affection as Watson tried to balance time between Holmes and his wife. And he knew one thing with frightening clarity: he didn't want to. Watson wasn't - _couldn't_ be - everything he needed, now.

That thought unnerved him enough that his violin nearly slipped from his fingers, and he moved to rest it in his chair. He shook his head to clear it as a tentative knock came on the door. He started, then drew a deep, shaky breath and headed toward the stairs.

He hurried down the steps and pulled the front door open. Clarky stood there, shifting nervously from foot to foot, but he smiled broadly when Holmes invited him inside.

He led the way to the sitting room, where Mrs. Hudson had set out the elaborate meal he'd requested, complete with wine chilling next to the table. Clarky blushed endearingly as he sat, straightening his jacket restlessly. He wore a dark brown suit, Holmes noted, thinking guiltily of the blue jacket he'd never had the time - or heart, if he were honest - to return. Holmes poured them each a glass of wine, which they both anxiously finished before even touching their food.

Still, the wine did it's job and soon they were smiling at each other, chattering lightly about cases as they ate, hardly noticing as the time flew by. It would almost seem like nothing had changed at all, if it weren't for the questioning glances Clarky kept sneaking at him and the butterflies in Holmes' stomach. Once they'd finished their meals, Holmes poured them each another glass of wine, still smiling. Clarky fidgeted suddenly, and Holmes found it impossible to tear his gaze away from the slight flush on his cheeks. Then, his tongue darted out to wet his lower lip, and for a moment Holmes forgot to think entirely.

"I think I should be going, actually," Clarky said, cheeks burning.

"What?" Holmes said, heart sinking. "Going?"

Clarky nodded, standing and taking a few unsteady steps backward. Panic rushed through him and Holmes stood, reaching to grip Clarky's hand, stopping his retreat. For a moment, Clarky simply stared at their joined hands, mouth parted slightly, then he flushed deeper and tried to move away. "Really, Mr. Holmes," he said, slightly pleading, "I _must_ be going -"

"I know," Holmes interrupted. "At least, I know why you _think_ you do." Clarky froze, eyes wide, staring at him.

"Mr. Holmes," he whispered.

"Stay a little longer, please." He stepped closer, until they stood chest to chest, and it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to slide an arm around his waist.

He stood still as Clarky stiffened in his arms. His stomach lurched with nerves, and it was such an odd, unfamiliar feeling that he nearly pulled away when suddenly strong arms wound around his waist, holding him tightly. Then he was being propelled backwards, Clarky leaning forward and pressing their lips together desperately, thrusting his tongue inside and stroking Holmes' own. Holmes relaxed instantly. _This,_ he was used to, though woefully out of practice. Still; this, he could work with. He nipped gently at Clarky's lips and the man let out a surprised moan, the reverberations seeming to shoot straight to Holmes' groin. He shifted one hand to cup Clarky's cheek, thumb stroking over the edge of his moustache.

He finally pulled back, gasping, a little unnerved by Clarky's enthusiastic response. He opened his mouth to attempt to suggest they slow down, that he wanted this to be something more, but Clarky dipped his head and trailed hot kisses down his neck, hands untucking his shirt and brushing over the skin there. He let out a startled cry, years of pent-up desires suddenly rushing through him. He gripped Clarky tightly and maneuvered them to the bed, all rational thought driven from his mind.

He sat down hard and Clarky immediately urged him on his back, blanketing him and grinding against him roughly. "Oh, thank God," Clarky rasped in his ear. "I thought I must have had it wrong, yesterday. I thought, there was no way you wanted -" Holmes cut him off, pulling him down for a brutal kiss, thrusting his tongue into Clarky's mouth in time with his shifting hips.

Soon they were tearing at each other's clothes, whispering soft curses as buttons snagged and seams pulled mercilessly, until finally they were able to press together, skin against skin. All at once they stilled, warm skin under their fingertips, their shafts pulsing in concert where they rested against each other. Then Holmes rolled his hips experimentally, and with a choked curse, Clarky leaned back.

"Do you have any..." he trailed off awkwardly, looking down.

"Lubricant?" Holmes reached for his nightstand where he'd stashed the small bottle weeks ago. He pressed it into Clarky's hands, an unspoken answer to the question in his eyes. Clarky pulled it open eagerly, slicking his fingers and reaching down to circle Holmes' entrance. He whimpered aloud at the sensation.

"Please," he said urgently. Clarky pressed two fingers inside, and he nearly came undone right then from the feel of someone else touching him so intimately. He groaned, pressing back farther on the digits, panting slightly. Clarky thrust his fingers experimentally, letting out a low moan when Holmes drew his knees up, holding himself open as he groaned, nearly overwhelmed. Finally Clarky withdrew his fingers shakily and leaned over him.

"Mr. Holmes?" he asked, voice strained. "Are you sure -?"

"_Yes,_" he gasped, pulling Clarky down for a harsh kiss as he pressed the tip of his cock inside. He whimpered into Clarky's mouth, biting at his lips and breaking the kiss to swear and pant until Clarky's shaft was finally - _finally_ \- completely inside of him. "_Move,_" he groaned, pressing his hips forward. "Oh God, please..."

Clarky pulled out and thrust into him hard, stroking his prostate roughly, quickly finding a rhythm that had Holmes gasping, eyes squeezed shut as pleasure threatened to overwhelm him. He gripped Holmes' hand, bringing it to his shaft and urging him to stroke himself as he shifted the angle of his hips, rubbing the head of his cock over Holmes' prostate in slow, shallow thrusts, panting, eyes trained on Holmes' hand moving urgently over his own flesh.

In the end, that was what sent him over the edge; in just a few thrusts, he let out a loud groan, barely keeping his eyes open long enough to see the ecstasy play over Clarky's face as he watched Holmes come over his own hand. Then he let his eyes drift closed as Clarky's movements became erratic and he panted in Holmes' ear as he came deep within him. With a long, shuddering sigh, Clarky rolled off of him and collapsed on the bed, sated.

"Well, sir," Clarky said after a while, sitting up, "Now I really -" he broke off as Holmes started chuckling.

"I think you can call me 'Holmes,' now, Clarky. Or even Sherlock, if you'd like," he smiled warmly at him as Clarky blushed and laid back down. They lay facing each other; Holmes reached out and ran a hand down Clarky's side, relishing in the way the man shivered. "What should I call you?" he whispered.

"Thomas, if you please si-" he broke off, flushing. Holmes couldn't help but smile, fingers splayed on Clarky's chest. "Sherlock," he whispered with a slight smile.

"Thomas," Holmes repeated softly, "I think you can stay, don't you?"

Clarky settled against the bed more comfortably. "Maybe just this once," he conceded.

Clarky found an excuse to stop by Baker Street nearly every day over the next few weeks. And while Holmes wasn't what he would call _inexperienced_, it wasn't until he found himself handcuffed to his own bed, Clarky stroking them both roughly and whispering in his ear all the filthy things he had wanted to do to Holmes in the hotel that he began to question the merits of years of abstaining from such pleasures. Still, when he found himself nearly folded in half a moment later, knees pressed to the bed on either side of him and Clarky sliding into him roughly, he couldn't help but think they were doing an excellent job of making up for lost time.

Much later, Clarky unfastened his handcuffs and tossed them to the floor, drawing Holmes close in what was rapidly becoming his favorite part of sex: he fit himself around Clarky, draping a leg over him and watching as Clarky's expression turned impossibly tender, trailing fingers through Holmes' hair, over his chest, down his arms. He always seemed on the verge of saying something, and Holmes waited breathlessly, but so far, no words had never come. Instead, he would kiss Holmes' forehead and they would drift off to sleep, content for the moment.

It was a few weeks into their relationship - though Holmes would be more inclined to call it an agreement rather than a relationship, much to his dismay - and Holmes was reclining on Clarky's bed, pipe in hand, looking out the window. There was a fine mist falling, shimmering as the sun began to rise. The streets were nearly deserted at this hour, the usual stillness of the hour exaggerated by the weather. Holmes sighed, waiting for Clarky to return from answering the door, shivering and wrapping the cool blanket tighter around himself, muttering unhappily. Clarky burst through the door a moment later, not to curl up in bed with Holmes like he had hoped, but to announce he had received a telegram from Lestrade about the case of the dead 12 year old girl.

"You were right. It's the father," Clarky explained as he donned his uniform. "They were supposed to apprehend him this morning; I don't know why they didn't. Lestrade wants me at the Yard."

"Hmm," Holmes swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat his pipe on the nightstand, reaching for his trousers. "I'll come along," he said as he stepped into them. Clarky stepped close behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist and nuzzling the back of his neck.

"I don't know," he said lowly, "I like the idea of you waiting here for me, in my bed." Holmes shivered and leaned back against him, but managed to fasten his trousers.

"Perhaps when you're not being summoned about a case we worked together," Holmes reminded him. "It's likely there's a telegram at Baker Street with the exact same instructions. It will be suspicious if I'm _not_ there, on this occasion."

Clarky sighed and stepped back. "True," he admitted reluctantly. Holmes finished dressing quickly, and soon they were outside, hailing a four-wheeler in the dreary fog. Holmes shivered as they climbed inside, and he was pleased to see a small wool blanket folded on each seat. They settled across from each other, Holmes covering himself immediately, still shivering.

The carriage door swung shut behind them, and the instant they were moving, Clarky shot him a mischievous look as he shifted to sit next to him, sliding his hand under the blanket and between Holmes' knees.

"What are you doing?" Holmes asked warily.

"Keeping you warm, sir," he said with a grin. Holmes looked at the windows nervously as Clarky quickly unfastened Holmes' trousers, though he couldn't make out anything through the fog.

"This is very unsa -" he bit his lip to hold in his surprised moan as Clarky gripped him firmly, the scratchy wool of the blanket rubbing over the head of his cock as Clarky tugged him free of his trousers.

"Who's going to see?" Clarky whispered, leaning close enough that Holmes could feel his breath on his neck. He moved in a firm, quick rhythm, already knowing exactly what to do to make Holmes bite his lip, eyes roving what he could see of the street even as he began to shift his hips.

Clarky's eyes drifted closed as his hand worked, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. The front of his trousers bulged, and Holmes licked his lips as he stared at it, suddenly wishing they were concealed enough for him to kneel in front of Clarky without being seen.

The mental image sent a rush of pleasure through him, and he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wrenching himself from Clarky's firm hold as tremors wracked his body. He dared to push the blanket down enough to come into the soft fabric in his hand, the sudden rush of cool air making him gasp -

\- Just as the cab began to slow in front of the Yard. Holmes covered himself quickly and banged on the ceiling with his walking stick. Clarky opened his eyes and looked at him, his cheeks flushed and eyes still dark with arousal.

"Keep driving!" he rasped, never tearing his gaze from Clarky's. The driver grumbled, but they began to speed up once more.

Clarky went to move to the other side of the carriage, but Holmes held him tightly. "Two grown men sharing a blanket in a carriage probably looks strange," Clarky pointed out breathlessly.

"_Now_ it matters to you," Holmes chuckled. "Besides, Watson and I have done far stranger things. The residents of London have come to expect it." He reached for Clarky's flies, but a gentle hand on his wrist stopped him.

"You speak of Dr. Watson frequently," Clarky said softly.

"He is my dearest friend," Holmes replied with a shrug.

Clarky pulled away suddenly. "I should get out here," he explained as he shifted to the seat across from Holmes and began to straighten his uniform. "Maybe the walk will explain this," he gestured to his flushed face and mussed hair. "You can take the carriage to the Yard."

Holmes leaned forward. "Are you implying that I always look like I've just been ravaged in a carriage?" he whispered, teasing. Clarky laughed.

"If you did, I'd never get any work done," he responded, leaning forward to fix Holmes' shirt. His fingers lingered longer than strictly necesary, and it made his heart flutter. He pulled back with a slight smile and called for the carriage to stop.

"I've seen what the Yard calls getting work done and I assure you, you have nothing to worry about," Holmes said as the carriage rolled to a stop. Clarky shot him a quick smirk as he tossed open the door. He heard him mutter instructions to the driver, and soon the cab was slowing outside the Yard.

He walked to the door just in time to see Lestrade and two other men hurry out.

"Watson?" he asked, surprised.

"Suspect shot one of the boys in a raid this morning," Watson explained grimly.

"We've just got an update on his location," Lestrade said, "Let's not waste any more time. Where have you been?" he barked, looking over Holmes' shoulder.

"Sorry, sir," Clarky said from behind him. Lestrade waved him off impatiently, but Clarky stepped forward and caught his arm. "Who was it?" he asked, jerking his head toward the door. Lestrade and Watson exchanged a tense glance, Watson's grip on his bag tightening.

"Gregson," Lestrade finally answered.

"He'll live," Watson added. Clarky nodded and stepped back, looking down at the ground. _He'll live_ wasn't quite _he'll be fine,_ and they all knew it. Lestrade cursed under his breath and strode past them, disappearing into the fog. Watson hurried to keep up; Clarky moved to follow, but Holmes snagged his wrist on impulse, slipping his revolver from his pocket and pressing it into Clarky's hand.

"I can't -" he began to protest, but stopped when he saw the look on Holmes' face. He slipped the gun into his pocket without another word, and they ran after the others.

There were three policemen already waiting outside the building. Holmes could hear movement in the alley, like a caged animal pacing. Several shots fired; they jumped.

"He's got a bunch of guns in there, sir," one of the men said to Lestrade. "He just keeps firing them, we don't know where."

"We need to get in there," Lestrade muttered, walking closer.

Suddenly, a man broke away from the crowd of police and darted forward, around the corner. A single shot fired.

_Clarky._

Holmes let out a strangled cry, nearly knocking Watson over in his haste to follow.


	4. Chapter 4

He rounded the corner, ignoring the knot of policemen who followed him. He tried to make out something, _anything,_ but the fog was too dense; he couldn't _see_, there was no noise, _nothing_ -

And then a familiar form appeared in front of him, quiet as a ghost. Holmes reached out and laid a hand on his chest.

"I've got him, sir," he said softly. He looked down at Holmes' shaking hand. "It's alright." There was a flurry of activity around them; Watson strode past, wrenching Clarky away from him wordlessly, examining him for any wounds, ignoring his light protests. The officers handcuffed the shooter and called for Watson to tend the bullet wound in his right arm, immobilizing it.

And Holmes simply stood there, frozen, in the center of it all. His knees were still shaking, his heart pounding in his chest.

The fog slowly began to disperse as the sun rose higher. He could see Watson at the other end of the alley, now, finishing wrapping the bandages on the man's fresh stitches. He turned and looked at the street.

Clarky sat on a bench, somehow managing to look both petulant and respectful as Lestrade leaned over him, gesturing wildly and shouting loud enough to be heard across the Thames. Two other officers brushed past him and loaded the subdued prisoner into a four-wheeler, still shooting Clarky wide-eyed glances.

Holmes couldn't understand a word being said. His blood was rushing in his ears. He wanted to walk over there and shake Clarky by his shoulders; he wanted to demand what he had been thinking, running after the suspect alone. It was absurd, and yet, all he wanted to do was march over there and tell him how damn _scared_ he'd been.

But he couldn't; Watson was there. _Lestrade_ was there. And he really had no claim on the man that would warrant such a reaction, he reminded himself. He pressed his palms to his eyes for a moment, then spun on his heel and stalked away.

Footsteps followed. "Holmes?" Watson said warily once he'd caught up. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," he ground out.

"Are you really? Because you look like you just swallowed a lemon." He paused. "He deserves it, you know," he gestured in the direction they'd come from. "He nearly got himself _killed_ -"

Holmes gasped suddenly, feeling as though he was choking on his own breath. He spun around with a curse, forgetting himself momentarily and hurrying back to where Lestrade was still yelling at Clarky. He gripped Clarky by the elbow, ignoring Lestrade's questions and protests, and hauled him from the bench and away from the officers milling about. The instant they were out of sight, he tugged him down the nearest alley and pressed him against the wall.

"What the hell were you _thinking?_" he hissed, finally giving in to the impulse and shaking him roughly. "Do you have any idea what I - if you had been -" he shoved him back against the wall and cursed, slamming his fist into the wall next to Clarky's head, watching him jump as pain shot up his arm. "You don't have to _prove yourself_ to me!" he spat.

Clarky drew a deep breath, reaching to grip his hand carefully. Holmes fought a wince as his bruised knuckles protested. "Sherlock, I'm _fine,_" he said softly.

"_Thomas,_" he tried to say it firmly, but it came out as a soft, strangled noise. He ducked his head.

Clarky sighed. "I'm sorry," he said softly. Holmes scoffed.

"_You're_ sorry," he sniffed. He looked up then, sliding his free hand to rest on the nape of Clarky's neck, thumb stroking gently.

Clarky's eyebrows furrowed. "Sir?"

He sighed. "I shouldn't have said -"

"_Mr. Holmes!_" He spun around to see Lestrade standing at the mouth of the alley, glaring at him with such anger that he actually took a step back, pulling his hand from Clarky's. "I need to speak with you. Now."

Wordlessly, he followed Lestrade from the alley into the street, walking away from the other officers. The moment they were definitely alone, Lestrade turned on him, eyes blazing.

"I trusted you," he spat. "I trusted you not to use his - his _tendencies_ \- against him," Lestrade hissed, eyes darting from side to side as though the bricks themselves would overhear. "And yet here he is, suddenly running into danger, risking his _life_, shortly after he starts spending time with _you_." He narrowed his eyes and stepped forward threateningly. "I won't stand for it. I don't know what you're going through with the doctor gone and I won't pretend to, but I will _not_ let a good man be ruined for it. _Stay away from him._"

Panic flooded him. After that morning, the only acceptable place for Clarky to be was at his side. "He's coming with me," he blurted out.

Lestrade narrowed his eyes at him. "Over my dead body!" he snapped.

Holmes' fingers twitched. "If necessary, yes," he conceded coldly.

There was a long pause as they glared at each other appraisingly. Finally Lestrade's face softened, looking uncertain. "Mr. Holmes," he began hesitantly, "I don't want to pry -"

"Then don't," Holmes snarled, brushing past him. He stormed toward where Clarky and Watson stood, engaged in a halting conversation. He gripped Clarky by the wrist and hauled him off once more.

"Holmes!" Watson shouted after him. "I need to talk to -"

"Later!" he snarled over his shoulder, not bothering to slow their pace.

As soon as they were back at Baker Street he led the way to the sitting room. He practically threw himself into his chair, glaring into the dark fireplace and trying to rein in his emotions. Clarky moved around the room quietly, his mere presence doing more for Holmes' state of mind than any words ever could. Suddenly he knelt before Holmes, reaching to take his injured hand and carefully winding a bandage over the broken skin there. Holmes simply watched him, lips parted slightly, until he finally drew his hands away, sitting back on his heels and looking up at Holmes patiently.

Holmes stood, taking Clarky's hand and leading him to the bed. He let the other man undress them both, settling them back against the pillows and running a hand down his chest. Clarky ducked his head, trailing his lips down Holmes' chest, but he reached down and tugged him away gently. Clarky furrow his brow, confused.

"I thought we came here to -"

"No," Holmes interrupted softly. He ran his fingers through Clarky's hair, tugging him closer. The pressed together, Clarky half laying on top of him, legs tangling as Clarky rested his head on Holmes' chest and Holmes wrapped his arms around his shoulders, holding him tightly, mouthing words he didn't dare speak aloud into his hair.

\-----

There was a loud knock on the door, causing them both to start; they'd been lightly dozing, passing the early afternoon curled around each other wordlessly. Clarky reached for his pants, obviously panicking, but Holmes just gripped his wrist and shook his head.

"Yes?" he called. The door handle jiggled, and an irritated huff could be heard through the door.

"There's a telegram here for you from the doctor," Mrs. Hudson said.

"What does it say?"

There was a soft rustling. "He needs to speak with you - it says here it's important. He wants you to come for supper tonight."

Clarky looked away, but not before Holmes saw the disappointment on his face. "I'll just go," he said softly, reaching for his clothes once more. Holmes gripped his wrist, hesitating. He didn't want to leave Clarky, not yet, but he'd already brushed Watson off once and was loath to do so once more.

"Come with me," he whispered. Clarky started, turning to look at him.

"You want me to come with you... and the doctor?" Clarky said, surprised. "Are you sure? Usually you'd rather go alone, so -" he broke off awkwardly as Mrs. Hudson called for Holmes' response.

"Well, I want you with me now," he gazed at Clarky, silently pleading, until Clarky's face suddenly broke out in a wide grin that made his heart flutter wildly.

"Mrs. Hudson?" he called, smiling back.

"Yes?"

"Will you wire an affirmative reply, if you please, and inquire if I may bring a guest?"

"A guest?" she said clearly confused. "Mr. Holmes, this telegram is _from_ Dr. Watson..."

He finally looked away from Clarky with an irritated huff. "Yes, I realize that. I was inquiring about _another_ friend."

"Another friend?" she asked, astonished. Holmes scoffed. "Oh!" She said suddenly. "That constable? Nice looking man, that one. Isn't every day you see a man coming through here that easy on the eyes. I can't believe I forgot him." Holmes bit his lip to keep from laughing as Clarky's face turned scarlet.

He leaned forward and pressed their lips together briefly before calling back, "The one and the same, my dear woman."

"Well," she said, obviously flustered, "If I get a 'my dear' for talking up the constable, you'll hear more from me on the subject, then."

"As long as that's all she gets," Clarky muttered, slipping a hand below the blankets and gripping him firmly. He heard Mrs. Hudson's footfalls on the stairs and bit his lip as Clarky grabbed the lubricant from the nightstand, letting his head fall back as he slicked his fingers and stroked Holmes roughly, carefully spreading the slick substance over him.

"You're the one she's got her eye on," Holmes whispered, rolling Clarky onto his back, settling between his spread legs and positioning himself against Clarky's opening, rubbing teasingly over the skin there. Clarky spread his legs wider, and Holmes pressed inside in one smooth movement, trapping his shaft between them. He could feel Clarky's pulse, then, a deep throbbing in the veins pressed against his abdomen.

He stilled, the events of the morning suddenly flooding back to him, icy fear chasing through his veins. He leaned down to press his head to Clarky's chest, feeling his heart beating wildly in his ribcage. He pressed a soft, grateful kiss there.

"Sherlock?" Clarky questioned, running a hand through Holmes' hair. He pressed his forehead down on Clarky's chest harder, afraid to lift his head and reveal the turbulent emotions that surely were written plainly on his face.

"I -" he started on impulse, then with a soft choked noise, bit back the other two words that threatened to tumble out. He closed his eyes tightly against the near-physical pain it caused him. He began to pump his hips slowly, Clarky moving to wrap his legs around his waist, hand still gently carding through his hair. His other hand began to wander over Holmes' shoulders and back, pressing against the tense muscles there as he awkwardly bent down to kiss Holmes' head.

"Sherlock?" he asked again.

He did lift his head, that time, smiling up at him in what he hoped was a convincing way. "Thomas," he breathed in return, leaning in for a soft, lingering kiss. Clarky gasped slightly, lips trembling as Holmes' mouth moved gently over his, tongues gliding together as their breath hitched. They each let out a soft moan as Holmes slowed his hips, pressing inside deeper and relishing in the feel of Clarky warm beneath him. He pulled back finally, but when he tried to look into Clarky's eyes, he found the other man had squeezed them shut tightly, lips still trembling. Holmes ducked his head and buried his face in his neck, moving faster.

_This is enough_, he told himself as he reached between them and ran his fingers down Clarky's length, biting his lip. Clarky tensed around him, warm wetness pouring over his fingers as his own body jerked in response. _It has to be._

\-----

Watson greeted them at the door, inviting them both inside with a warm smile. Clarky stepped inside, and Holmes was following close behind when Watson caught his hand, lifting it to inspect the bandages wrapped around his bruised knuckles.

"Who did this?" he asked, surprised. Holmes couldn't help but smile; usually he only received medical care when Watson insisted on treating him. Holmes nodded to where Mary was showing Clarky inside.

Watson looked between them for a moment. "Oh," he said finally. "I was surprised to hear you were bringing a guest," he admitted quietly. "I hadn't realized the two of you were becoming so close." He looked away, chewing his lip thoughtfully.

"It bothers you?" Holmes asked warily.

"No! No," Watson smiled, a wide, forced expression, clearing his throat and leading the way to the sitting room where Clarky and Mary were waiting patiently for them.

"You had something urgent to tell me?" Holmes asked just outside the door. Watson looked back at him, then shook his head slightly.

"After we eat," he suggested.

On impulse, Holmes reached out and gripped his elbow, stopping him. "I have news for you as well, dear fellow," he said quickly, before he could change his mind.

Watson looked surprised. "Oh?"

"Yes," he said firmly. Then he hesitated, nerves overtaking him. "Now, let's join them, shall we?" he said hastily. Watson nodded and they entered the room. Watson immediately moved to the settee and sat next to Mary, and Holmes seated himself in an armchair next to Clarky.

"It's lovely to see you again, Mr. Holmes," Mary said, smiling. "Do tell us how you've been. Have you had any cases recently?"

"Ah, my caseload has been dreadfully dull as of late. There was a rather intriguing murder case in the West End not quite a fortnight ago, but aside from that, nothing of note comes to mind."

"There was Mr. Daniel Parker's case last week," Clarky reminded him absently, looking around the room. Watson's eyes darted between them and he frowned slightly.

Holmes laughed, "Ah! The Parker's missing _parrot,_" he said with a grin. Clarky chuckled. "Unfortunately for Mr. Parker, his ailing mother had taught the animal to recite the code to the family safe. He was quite relieved to discover it had not in fact been stolen, but that his mother had merely forgotten to latch it's cage properly. I managed to retrieve the bird at a local aviary. I housed it at Baker Street for the night, and returned him safely home in the morning to recite the code only to trusted ears."

"Along with a few other choice phrases."

Holmes smirked. "Yes, it did pick up a rather... colorful vocabulary at some point," he ran a hand over his face to cover his smile. Clarky had spent a fascinated evening teaching the bird phrases that made even Holmes' ears burn, and in the morning they discovered - to _both_ their chagrin - that it had learned several other noises over the course of the night as well. "The lady of the house was quite scandalized upon it's return, I'm afraid." Mary giggled lightly, and Holmes smiled at her.

"You didn't mention that when we had lunch last Friday," Watson said to him, sounding vaguely hurt. He shrugged.

"It seemed unimportant. And as I recall, you were rather distracted by a young patient with influenza." Watson looked down at his hands. Just then, the maid stepped inside and announced dinner. The meal passed in an easy, companionable way, with Watson brightening considerably when Holmes focused on a story he was telling about a patient, and Clarky drawing Mary into friendly but polite conversation. All too soon, Holmes and Watson were seated on the settee together, watching Clarky and Mary, who were seated at the other end of the room in front of the fire, chatting amiably.

"Now," Watson said purposefully, and Holmes' heart sank, "You had something to tell me?"

"Your news first, my good fellow. I fear once you hear mine, I won't be permitted to stay long enough to hear yours."

Watson started to laugh, but stopped quickly when he saw Holmes' expression. "You're serious? Holmes," he leaned over and touched his wrist gently, "Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"Not at all," he responded quickly. He glanced away and couldn't help but smile fondly. "Farthest from it I've ever been, I would say. And yet in some ways, closer, as well."

Watson looked at him, confused. "You must know I would never send you away," he said finally.

"Never?" Holmes said, suddenly desperate. He turned to capture Watson's right hand in his left. "Are you sure about that?" he asked softly. He shook his head before Watson could answer. "Never mind. Not now. Please, tell me your news."

Watson drew a deep breath. "Well, Holmes, it appears I'm going to become a father." He said the last word slightly louder than the rest, and Mary glanced at him with a warm smile before turning back to Clarky. Holmes for his part, simply looked between them for a moment. Watson eyed him nervously.

Holmes smiled back at him. "Congratulations, my dear Watson," he said, clapping him firmly on the shoulder with his free hand. Watson grinned, obviously relieved, squeezing his hand in thanks. "Perhaps one day Mary will allow me to aid in the child's education."

Watson laughed. "I don't doubt she would, with suitable boundaries put in place," he chuckled. "At least until the day comes when you have children of your own, I suppose." Holmes looked down, all mirth suddenly gone. He felt Watson shift closer. "Oh, Holmes," he sighed. "You aren't going to avoid women for the rest of your life, are you?"

He looked over to where Mary and Clarky were sitting in front of the fire, talking lowly. The glow from the fire flickered over Clarky's features, shining in the warm depths of his eyes and he listened to Mary speak intently. He was absolutely breathtaking. Holmes shook himself and looked back to see Watson watching them as well, lips curved in a slight smile, eyes soft. He looked slightly ridiculous; Holmes rather suspected he looked much the same way.

He looked down and cleared his throat pointedly. Watson started and turned to look at him. "Right. Sorry. Your news...?" Watson moved his left hand to cradle their already entwined fingers. Holmes hesitated. Would Watson shun Clarky the way Holmes had shunned Mary? That thought hurt more than he'd expected, and suddenly he felt very ashamed of his prior behavior.

"Well, Watson," he drew a deep breath, avoiding his friend's eyes, "it appears I _will_ be avoiding women, at least for a time. 'For the rest of my life' would be presumptuous, at this stage," he said, "Though I have no desire to alter course, as it were." He risked letting his gaze wander to Clarky again to see him pressing a hand to Mary's abdomen hesitantly, a soft, wondrous expression overtaking his features as he met her eyes. Holmes' heart fluttered, and he barely noticed when Watson released his hand.

"You were right," Watson said softly.

"Watson?" He turned to see his friend regarding him seriously.

"I think you should leave."


	5. Chapter 5

Watson had seen them to the door politely, if a bit stiffly. Clarky had bid Mary a warm good-bye, and she beamed as she stepped forward and kissed his cheek lightly. Watson had looked at Holmes, then, a piercing sort of look that had him murmuring a quick farewell and walking to the street. Clarky had caught up quickly, and they walked home in silence.

Two weeks had passed since then, at Holmes' best guess. He moved very little, from his bedroom to the sitting room at Clarky's gentle prodding, more to appease the man than anything else. Earlier in the week, he had heard hushed voices in the hall, faint snatches of an argument as Clarky and Lestrade shuffled past the sitting room door, obviously carrying something heavy between them.

"Thomas Lawrence Clark," Lestrade hissed, obviously trying to keep his voice down and failing, "This is quite possibly the _worst_ decision you have ever made. Bar _none._"

"It's just temporary," Clarky grunted as they moved farther away, toward Watson's old room. "He's not been himself, lately. I don't know why."

"He _is_ himself, more than you've ever seen. That's why it worries me."

"He needs _someone_ here with him, right now."

"And that someone needs to be you because...?" Holmes shifted closer to the door, but if there was a reply, it was too soft for him to hear. A few minutes later, a soft knock came on the sitting room door, and the two men slipped inside warily.

"I've just moved a few things into the - well, the other room," Clarky said softly. "So you'll have someone nearby. It's alright with Mrs. Hudson." Holmes managed a weak smile at that, and Clarky seemed to glow in return. Lestrade, for his part, glowered.

"I'll be back in a week or so," he told Clarky firmly, "To see how you're getting along. Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes?" he drawled, looking out the window.

"I hope you're feeling better soon." It sounded more like a threat than a well-wishing. He heard the door click shut a moment later.

He hadn't been alone a night since, Clarky spending the time curled around him, waking each morning with a hopeful look, as though time and rest could somehow pull him from the pit he'd fallen into.

He sighed, trying to block out those thoughts. Clarky had disappeared earlier that day, though to where was anyone's guess. Holmes sat listlessly on his bed, leaning back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. He heard the door open and close, but didn't bother to look down. Footsteps approached him; an instant later, the bed shifted and a hand was gripping his gently. How long had it been since Clarky had left? He shook his head to clear it, but only ended up making himself dizzier.

"Sherlock?" Clarky said softly. "What can I do?"

"Nothing," he said morosely. "There is nothing to be done at all."

They sat in silence for a long moment. "I went to see the doctor," Holmes whipped his head around to look at him, and Clarky smiled sadly at his response. "He wasn't able to see me, but I spoke with Mrs. Watson." Holmes looked away again. "I had hoped -"

"Hope," Holmes scoffed. "A useless waste of time."

"What else am I supposed to do?" Clarky said bitterly. "Tell me what to do, and I'll do it."

Holmes hesitated. "You should leave," he whispered. Clarky's hand tugged free from his own.

"Is that what you really want?"

"It's what you should do," Holmes replied. "I cannot fathom why you've remained this long." The bed shifted once more as Clarky rose. He crossed the room to stand at the window, looking down at the street as though waiting for something.

"There's someone coming to the door," he said after a while. Holmes shrugged.

"Mrs. Hudson will take a message."

Clarky turned around. "You should get this one yourself," he said, just a knock came at the door. Holmes grumbled, but pushed himself from his chair and made his way down the stairs to throw open the door.

Watson and Mary stood framed in the doorway, Watson clutching a bag in one hand. Mary was gripping Watson's arm tightly, smiling at him. Watson was looking anywhere but at him, lips pursed, eyebrows drawn.

Relief coursed through him at the sight. He knew that expression; he'd worn that expression. He'd practically _invented_ that expression, and it certainly didn't mean their friendship was damaged beyond repair.

"May we come in?" Mary asked sweetly. Watson looked up just long enough to meet his eyes, then focused over his shoulder. He chewed his lip, remembering some of the awful things he'd said to Mary in the beginning. Clarky... he would take it to heart if Watson chose to take this out on him.

"I don't think now is a very good time," Holmes said warily. Mary smiled wider.

"That means it's perfect, then," she tugged Watson past him and toward the stairs. He followed reluctantly.

Clarky was in the sitting room, seated in front of the fire, watching them nervously when they entered the room. Holmes shot him a grateful but nervous smile, mood lifted already. He crossed to his chair and sat.

"I'll ring for tea and biscuits," Watson said. "You're going to eat."

"I don't want -" Holmes started to protest.

"I don't care," Watson interrupted. He thrust the bag he'd been holding into Holmes' hands. "Get washed and dressed. Now." Holmes rose and hurried from the room. A half hour later, clean, fed and wearing Watson's freshly pressed clothing, he felt more like himself than he had in days.

They sat in silence. Finally, Mary crossed to stand in front of Clarky. "It's such a fine afternoon. Constable?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am?" Clarky stood quickly. Holmes couldn't help but smile at the man's eagerness. Even Watson's lips twitched as he shot Mary a warning look which she ignored completely.

"Would you accompany me on a walk?"

"Of course, ma'am," he answered automatically. He flushed slightly before he shot Holmes an apologetic look. Holmes merely smiled warmly at him and waved them away.

The moment the door closed behind them, Watson sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. "It's not that you're a... a - well, I always knew you were a strange one, Holmes. It's really not much of a surprise that..." he trailed off awkwardly, clearing his throat and looking away. They sat in silence, Holmes not daring to speak. "You - _you_ \- found someone else," Watson said finally.

"_You_ found someone else," Holmes shot back, suddenly irritated. "_You_ left _me_ behind first; you can hardly be upset about that aspect," he snapped.

"That's different and you know it. It's _Mary_. I wasn't trying to _replace_ you with her! I love h-" he broke off, his eyes widening, raising a hand to his lips. His gaze drifted away. "Oh my God."

Holmes' blood seemed to freeze in his veins. "Watson," he pleaded in a hushed tone.

Watson turned to look back at him, shock overtaking his features. "Holmes, you -?"

"Watson, please, I am _begging_ you -"

"You lov-"

"- don't make me tell _you_ before I've told _him_." The words tumbled out in a rush, and he pressed a hand to his lips as though he could put them back. For a long moment they simply looked at each other.

Then, Watson's eyes softened. "Oh, _Holmes._ Truly?"

He felt himself flush as he looked away and nodded. He cleared his throat awkwardly, drawing his knees up to his chest, gripping the arms of his chair tightly. "It was quite unexpected," he said finally. Watson snorted in laughter, and Holmes glared at him.

"Love always is, my dear man," was all he said. Holmes felt himself relax slightly. "You _love_ him," Watson said to the room at large, as though testing out the statement. Suddenly, Watson was grinning quite absurdly, and Holmes felt himself begin to smile in return. "Why haven't you told him? You're not exactly shy; I'm assuming you've -" he started to make a rude hand gesture, then stopped, trying to adjust it awkwardly. Holmes wrinkled his nose and groaned, reaching to push his hands down with a chuckle.

"_Yes,_" he said pointedly. "We have. But I know you yourself can verify that is very different than telling someone you -" he cleared his throat awkwardly, "- have _feelings_ for them."

"Yes, but this is _you_. How many people have you -" Watson resumed the gesture even more awkwardly than before, and Holmes finally found himself doubled over in laughter. Watson merely smiled, always happy to elicit such a reaction from his friend.

"Oh Watson," he wiped tears from his eyes, "Never turn to buggery, I beg you. You would be _painfully_ bad at it." Watson choked, and suddenly they were both doubled over, laughing hard enough to send tears down their cheeks, smiling at each other as they gasped for breath.

The door swung open then, and Mary and Clarky strode inside arm in arm. They smiled politely at the two of them as their appearance sent them both into another laughing fit.

"Really, the two of you..." Mary trailed off with a smile.

"Sir?" Clarky asked Holmes nervously, and Watson covered his face with his hand before shooting Holmes a look that clearly said _I did not want to know that about you._

Holmes merely wiped his eyes and stood, moving to stand before Clarky, who was still glancing between them warily. Holmes reached to grip one of his hands gently. "Thank you," he said quietly, voice thick with emotion. Clarky's eyes snapped back to focus on him, and he seemed to glow under the look Holmes was giving him.

"We should go," Watson said, sounding amused. Holmes managed to tear his gaze away to see both Mary and Watson watching them fondly. He cleared his throat and stepped back, cheeks burning. Watson smiled, and he couldn't help but smile in return.

"I'll show you out," Holmes said. Clarky stayed in the sitting room as they made their way to the door.

Mary walked out first, and Watson stopped in the doorway, turning to look at Holmes, eyes bright. "Don't wait," he said simply. He turned to leave.

Panic flooded him, and he darted forward and caught Watson's sleeve. Mary kept walking, giving them a moment alone. "How do I...?" Watson smiled and reached to squeeze his hand.

"It's three words, Holmes. They don't need a context, I promise you." With that, he turned and followed his wife.

Holmes walked back to the sitting room in a daze. He'd always known the fair sex was Watson's department; perhaps he could expand that theory to encompass love in general. His heart rate sped up. "Clarky," he said softly from the doorway. "There's something I wish to discuss with you."


	6. Chapter 6

Holmes stood there in the doorway for what felt like an eternity, watching as Clarky turned to look at him expectantly. His mouth slammed shut, his teeth banging together. How should he say it? Certainly he shouldn't just barge into his sitting room and announce it at large?

"I'm glad the doctor was able to help you," Clarky said turning his face toward the fire. "It's obvious how much you care for him."

Holmes stepped inside slowly, sitting next to Clarky on the settee. He tried to catch his eye, but Clarky kept his face studiously turned away. "Watson is very important to me," he conceded. "Before Mary, I had thought - well, that we'd always be together. Sometimes, I thought that was what he wanted, too. When he told me he was engaged -"

"I understand," Clarky interrupted, turning to look at him finally. "I've, well, I've been in a similar situation."

Suddenly, Holmes knew exact what he meant. "Lestrade's married, isn't he?" he said. Clarky flushed deep red, glancing away.

"Going on five years now," he said quietly, wistfully. Holmes' heart sank. He couldn't do this, he realized. He couldn't tell Clarky how he felt, not if he was still in love with his friend.

"When did you tell him how you felt?" Holmes asked quietly. Clarky grimaced.

"The night of his wedding. Or so he tells me. I just remember waking up on his settee the next day, stinking of liquor and my own vomit. I don't drink much, since, you might have noticed." He drew a deep breath, still looking at the floorboards. "He's always been a good friend to me, even since... that," he said awkwardly. "I knew he couldn't return my feelings. But he took in stride, bless him, and even his wife forgave me, though honestly, I don't know how. He set himself to be the best friend I could have, even if he couldn't understand." Holmes gripped his hand in sympathy.

"And... you still...?"

Clarky smiled and shook his head sadly. "No. Not for a while, now." He took a deep breath and looked away. "Not him, anyway," he added, almost too low to hear. Holmes' heart raced.

"I told Watson," Holmes said quietly. Clarky jerked his head up to look at him, wide-eyed.

"Today?" he asked incredulously, and Holmes knew in the jealous gleam in his eye he was imaging the way they'd been laughing together that afternoon.

"No. When they invited us for dinner." He drew a deep breath. "I didn't tell him I used to be in love with him. Maybe I will, someday. No, I told him," he stopped briefly, heart in his throat. "I told him I'm in love with _you_," he said.

There was a long pause. Then, "Sherlock, I -"

"- I understand, if you cannot return the sentiment," Holmes said hurriedly. "It's an entirely purposeless declaration, I'll grant, as our arrangement has always been satisfactory in the pas -" his rambling narrative was cut off as Clarky drew him close, pressing soft kisses to his jawline.

"I love you," Clarky murmured between kisses. It felt as though the wind had been knocked out of him; he sucked in a deep breath, leaning back far enough so they could look at each other. He recognized the look on Clarky's face instantly: the light in his eyes, the soft, gentle way he smiled. The way he'd _always_ smiled at Holmes. Even as he looked at Clarky tenderly in return, he couldn't help but think what a fool he'd been, to not have seen it for what it was sooner. He reached up to brush his fingers over Clarky's cheek.

Clarky's eyes drifted closed under his soft touches as the emotions seemed to overwhelm him. "Open your eyes," Holmes whispered.

He did, and Holmes felt a lump form in his throat at the vulnerable expression on his face. He kissed him gently, gripping his hand and tugging him to his feet, leading him toward the bedroom. The instant they were inside, he began undressing them, tugging at buttons and thrusting his tongue into Clarky's mouth until Clarky seemed mindless with desire, tossing their clothing aside and pinning Holmes to the bed.

"Do you have any idea how long I've-?" Clarky choked out, rolling Holmes onto his stomach and thrusting a finger inside of him. Holmes started at the lack of preparation, but Clarky pulled out quickly and slicked his fingers, pressing inside gently the second time. "I love you," he said again, as he caressed him. Holmes jerked, rubbing his erection against the mattress below him. Clarky gripped his hip gently to stop the movement. "I've loved you for so long," he breathed as he withdrew his fingers. Holmes felt the head of his cock press against him and thrust back onto it, moaning aloud as Clarky jerked in surprise.

"I love you," Holmes repeated, twisting his hips and fighting the urge to curse aloud. "I have - hng - felt this way for so long, but I didn't know what to do..."

Clarky curled his fist in his hair, jerking his head back. He leaned forward to whisper in his ear, "Tell me. How do you feel about me?"

He pressed inside harder, rubbing his head over Holmes' prostate repeatedly as he babbled his response. "I love you. I think maybe I've always loved you. I feel a pressure in my chest when you're nearby, like I might explode. I get hard when you speak the simplest of words - like hot or motive or want -"

"_Want_?" Clarky breathed hotly in his ear, and he bit back a curse.

"Yes, _want,_" he moaned, pressing back eagerly. "Oh, God, I want..."

Clarky shushed him gently. "I know."

Suddenly, he found himself forced against the mattress, face rubbing against the fabric there as Clarky thrust into him desperately, hitting his prostate with each thrust and sending him higher and higher until he thought he was going to explode with the intensity of it all. Clarky leaned forward then, trailing open-mouthed kisses across the back of his neck until he bit back a curse and came over the sheet below him. A mere moment later, Clarky let out a string of colorful expletives and followed him. He collapsed on top of Holmes, pinning him down with his dead weight. Holmes chuckled lightly.

Eventually Clarky moved to the side, reaching to grip his fingers and kiss his knuckles. Holmes couldn't help but smile. "I'm sorry," Clarky said softly. Fear coiled through him suddenly.

"For what?" Holmes demanded nervously.

Clarky gestured helplessly. "This wasn't exactly romantic. I thought that if we - well, if I told you how I felt - it would at least be more tender."

Holmes laughed, half from relief, half from genuine amusement. "I couldn't tell you when I enjoyed a liaison more, my dear. The physical aspect need not change just because the emotional has. I assure you, I am - and always have been - _quite_ satisfied."

Clarky's gaze softened. "I'm glad," he said, moving his lips to Holmes' wrist. "I adore you," he whispered there.

"Je t'adore," Holmes whispered in reply. Clarky smiled at him gently, settling against him to sleep.

\-----

Holmes awoke slowly, a sense of peace settling over him even as his eyes focused and he tried to remember _why_ he was so happy. The instant he did, he looked around the room eagerly, only to see he was alone. He pulled on his dressing gown and walked out to the sitting room. Clarky was reclining on the settee, book in hand, one arm and leg dangling off the edge of the seat, his shirt still half-unbuttoned. Holmes moved to kneel next to him, tugging the book from his hand and letting it fall noiselessly to the floor. Clarky smiled at him, curling his arm under the pillow under his head instead, raising his other to brush his fingers over Holmes' hip. Holmes slid his hand inside Clarky's shirtfront, stroking over the warm skin there as he rested his other next to his head.

"I love you," Holmes said, tenderly. Clarky smiled, reaching up to cup Holmes' neck and draw him down. Holmes sighed and brushed their lips together, the barest of contact. Clarky's breath hitched.

And a soft, strangled noise came from the doorway.

They sprang apart, only to see Lestrade standing awkwardly in the doorway, face burning. "I told you I'd be back to check up on you in a week," he reminded Clarky, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Clarky hastily buttoned his shirt. "Lock the door, for God's sake," Lestrade barked suddenly, looking between them sternly. "Haven't you two any sense at all?"

Clarky stood and crossed the room quickly to grip him by the arm. They immediately began to argue quietly, but Lestrade's protests looked half-hearted, and his eyes kept drifting questioningly to Holmes, who had sat at the settee after Clarky stood, wrapping his dressing gown tightly around himself in his embarrassment. Clarky attempted to lead Lestrade out of the sitting room, but he pulled away gently, waving Clarky off. He turned and crossed to stand directly in front of Holmes, looking at him appraisingly. Clarky hovered by the door, chewing his lip.

"Is it true?" Lestrade asked.

Holmes shifted awkwardly in his seat. "You _did_ hear that, then," he muttered, more to himself.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, and I want to know if you're in earnest. If you're not -"

"I am; completely," Holmes said quickly. Lestrade broke off, looking him over. Finally he looked away and sighed.

"Do you know how _easy_ the doctor has it?" he grumbled.

"Pardon?"

"He has to trust you to someone like Clarky. _I_ have to trust Clarky to someone like _you,_" he grumbled, but the soft smile playing around his lips betrayed him. Holmes laughed lightly. Clarky finally moved to stand behind Lestrade, gripping his shoulder with one hand and beaming at him over his shoulder. Lestrade grumbled under his breath, turning to meet Clarky's eyes as he reached up to squeeze his hand affectionately. "Crazy, the both of you," he murmured as he gently shook him off and walked to the door. "I'll see you at the Yard tomorrow," he called over his shoulder, and with that he was gone. Clarky smiled slightly at Holmes.

"Well, that's as good as we're going to get out of him. I expected worse, actually."

"He'll adjust, the more he comes around," Holmes said. "So will Watson. Soon, it will seem like nothing at all," he predicted. He hoped.

Clarky ran a hand over his shoulders. "You still love him," he said softly.

"Yes," Holmes answered immediately. "And you still love _him_, do you not?"

Clarky smiled warmly. "Yes. I do."

Holmes tugged him closer, until Clarky finally sat on his legs and he could wrap him in his arms. "It's not the same, though, is it? I never thought it could be this way."

"Neither did I," Clarky sighed, pressing closer with a smile. Then he stood, gripping Holmes' hand and pulling him to his feet. "Come back to bed."


End file.
